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Festivalul Internațional de Poezie București
Târgul Național al Cărții de Poezie
13 - 17 mai, 2015. Video 2015
Poemele de mai jos aparțin poetului Adam Borzič. Scriitorul va participa la Festivalul Internaţional de Poezie București 2014.
Textele sunt în limba engleză.
BARCELONA OUTCRIES FROM MY GLASS HEAD
I understand the artist to be someone who, amidst the silence of others,
uses his voice to say something, and has the obligation that this thing
not be useless but something that offers a service to man.
1. An Outcry Begun on Montjuic
My glass inner head
revealed on JupiterMountain in Barcelona!
My glass head of baleful bolero!
I open my fourth eye therein,
whose sorrow devours the crab,
the hungry fledgling
stuck in the colourful nets of a cracked TV.
Inside my glass head!
I carry you inside a transparent bump
heavy and taciturn,
heavy and locked,
heavy and impassable
your sleepy precarious sorrow on the metro.
All those locked faces,
all those hearts on their chains,
desires on credit, dreams shackled
with the slimy strings of advertising.
Are you our Saviour? I ask
the Chinese musician in the underpass,
and he continues playing his American worn-out song
somewhere among the green hummocks floating in the fog.
I want a dragon to flash out of those nearly blind slits of his
and fly up toward the euro skies
his fiery shiver inspiring fear in the covetous monsters.
Are you our saviour, I ask the brown waitress
with a round nose and hot cleavage,
she is silent and I want to throw myself at her tired feet and pray for an earthquake.
I exit the restaurant and the inscription
INDEPENDÉNCIA – SOCIALISMO
sprayed on the ragged wall
causes me to tremble like a November leaf.
Desire! Then on the boulevard of the rich
I bounce again into human walls.
I cannot help myself,
the subjugated world swims inside a glowing aquarium,
bones and cacti, blood cells and sperm cells,
Mary’s menstruation blood, into which I gently plunged my finger,
trillions of sighs, spider web strands of thoughts and black bile.
For the living melancholy has wound itself around my arms,
seeping inside me, and I, weary of its floating,
on my own Ship of Fools, dare the following appellation:
Injustice is injustice.
2. An Outcry Begun on Placa del Sol
Roosters and hens
perched underneath three reflectors on the square-shaped square?
That’s how your evil eye would have it,
loaned to you by the aging marquis
in leather pants.
Alright, I still take it,
roosters frighten death
and there’s a church in Jerusalem,
with the holy Hen – that’s Jesus
protecting the chickens with his halo,
just look it up in the Bible.
The Sun Square is now covered
with barely foliaged youth.
Since I was a child, the sun has breathed onto the back of my neck.
It burnt a hole into every single poem I wrote at 16.
SUN IS GOOD, GOOD HAPPINESS
I would stutter in the euphoria of young love.
Afterward THE SUN REPUBLIC shone up,
with a Jewish friend we would smoke it out of our marijuana fingers,
at the Černý most dam, near the abominable block of flats he lived in,
and where the Sun never shone.
Did we know Campanella or Ficino back then?
I don’t even know now.
Today, at the Placa del Sol
surrounded by youth I haven’t the courage to accost the dealers
selling red beer-cans and opaque bags of weed.
Where have you gone, my youth?
Will I venture out toward the young Sun?
Are the youth at this square the Sun?
Squares are occupied by the youth elsewhere in this country.
Puerta dela Sol.
Maybe they really are the Sun.
Will I give their time some time,
or will I disappear in the fossilised lyricism
of my own self?
3. An Outcry Begun in the La Seu cathedral
As my glass head aims for the higher stories of the Sun Country
a door appears, and behind it, geese.
Goose dance in the cathedral’s paradisal courtyard.
Out of sheer amazement at the white whirl
I cave in on high, myself becoming a door.
A strong wind passes through me, turning the world inside out.
Bird bodies give form to a fluttering rainbow.
Underneath the rainbow on two floating chairs sit two teachers.
One has a fringe, the other one doesn’t, both are supine
their eyes encircled by stern lines.
The one teaches me music in motion and the other music in feeling.
Both point upwards into the steep satin of the skies.
Not knowing what to do, I cave in on further up
and in the folds of the celestial goblet I catch a glimpse
of a green skirt fluttering. The very essence of womanhood
elevates me into mighty vertigo.
Meanwhile the goose beaks stream with waterfalls of light.
And every waterfall is a Mother-Child connection.
I rotate inside a mandorla. I rotate inside an egg.
My eyes are shut in my glass head
observing from the inside how light draws me in between ship masts.
I myself am a ship sailing motionlessly in the whirlpools of airy seas.
Maria del Mar and I are one body – the excited streaming
of ship missiles, the excitedly amorous thundering skies.
I lose my head and my glass head turns into a sapphire lizard of the heart,
my sex reacts to this sea ecstasy fiercely –
with a humble erection.
4. An Outcry Begun at the Foot of the Güell Park
From behind the tenuous cloudy curtain emerges the mild autumn sun.
In an almost religious euphoria my glass head ascends the Gaudí hill.
Near the foot in the carved-out bus-stop through the trellis I can see the city below
and a house nearby with the upper storey all covered in sprayed inscriptions:
OCCUPY AND RESIST
and next to it reads WE KNOW YOUR PARADISE
and WELLCOME INTO THE HELL OF FREEDOM
and to the left of the inscriptions there’s the encircled neon letter -A.
In addition to it there are a few sharply sketched head outlines, green extra-terrestrials
and advertisement coconut trees littered with coconuts,
clothes on a line, hemp in a flowerpot, sunglasses on a windowsill,
ashtray full of cigarette butts and a colourful towel over a low banister.
My glass head keeps reeling, wheeling and whirling.
Out-of-breath tourists click their cameras like there’s no tomorrow.
The wind carries me off onto another Barcelona hill.
/We always return to where we headed out from,
recognising the place for the first time./
Amid the trees that smell of sperm stands Joan Miró.
Dressed up like a worker from the 20s,
his hand munching his hat, his eyes meekly staring at the ground.
Then he picks up a stick a draws into the yellow clay
a line and a wheel, a star and a turf.
Through the eye I fall into the drawing, flying through the red centre,
flying through the whirl of massacred bodies, iron droning all around my head,
pieces of skin whizzing centripetally, becoming needles
piercing through my open ear.
Then from afar I hear his voice, all wheezing, almost hissing:
An artist living for himself is a piece of shit.
A slimy piece of shit straight out of the arsehole of the world.
Just wait and see what time does to him.
I see a piece of shit,
A thousand pieces of shiny slimy Francoist shit.
And then I see nothing at all.
I awake on the ground,
I’m lying and cubic animals float across the skies,
I want to regurgitate all the artificial faeces
I’ve ever ingested,
I want to concentrate on the inside of my glass head,
which aches me maddeningly.
Inside my glass head wrath drones on.
It is a living wrath.
Resonating across all the hillocks of Barcelona.
BLUE: A BERLIN MEDITATION ON THE INNER COLOUR
with the cooling shot the morning has shifted
all the way to the chilling bottom
the body’s candle erected above the defeated bed sheets
every tear dropped to where it was meant to
and every itch registrable by the voice
as if the voice were whispering to the world
its unrepeatably debauched confession
I am testing out just how much stones screens and wings can carry
in the metro vestibule crowds gather
dolls with blue steel in their eyes
and jumping-jacks march in uniforms
someone laughs out loud, someone’s knees quiver with shame
someone plumps up black kilos
like a cushion
the air carries sighs suppressed
the colour throws everyone into blue ecstasy
Colour meditating about colour:
I shuffle the chessman
aim with the bishop
squalls in the closest face
just to tussle
the caked hair
just to relish
another chilly fear
I undertake a research as I rush up and down the escalator
I’ve got a mobile laboratory, testing devices, samples of the inner colour
I’m equipped for disappointment of all kind I’m equipped for joys of all kind
one evasive manoeuvre can gain it all: a blossoming cherry-tree, a glossy weapon, a tattooed leg
one sidestep can get you off the wagon and let the feet fly let the feet carry themselves
I narrate new stories, new mythologies, discover new nooks
there are reactors droning in my mind, there are pigeons swooping down onto strewn glass in my mind
and women adjust their black hills of hair with their red nails,
they fix a blossom, attach with a pin and leave their bodies up to cinnamon –
dissolving as rapidly as they’ve originated from one single fold of mind
falls onto the ground
pure lines of air
pure white stars
brushing my teeth, I operate on myself in mid-morn,
felling the chessmen, with one nimble punch I lose them all
I am the morning melancholy
I am the day melancholy
the clear shiny blueness
the clear shiny light
I metamorphose into a black line, a black letter, a black beast of prey
I leave the constricted flat, leave the dripping faucet, leave the paper walls
I float in the blueness like a Berlin Angel like a blue Angel
the blueness uplifts me metallic blueness
I am the eagle above the Brandenburger Tor
I land headlong
I lift myself from the ground fiercely kicking around myself to kick the world’s airy bottom
I lift my hands toward the skies aircraft aim southward I see heads burning
I see bodies all heaped up into a pile I see shovels all weary
and I see black-and-white hands fearing every swing of the wings dreading the beetles
the black antennae I dread the slowness I dread the shuffle
I dread the broken chair the room’s shitty corner I dread the only
yellow tooth in the black maw of the only flash in the dark
flexible metallic waves flow through my stomach I turn into a puppet on a wire
drinking juice-box setting my watch according to TV meanwhile orchids turn into snakes
I attempt to fathom the change but get lost get lost among the fat bodies of journalists
among the chubby information interferences I try to find direction in the street but even the scent of linden
changes in front of the nose into a black joke at whose end there is a lit pumpkin hand grenade cigar
I want to escape down the alley but there is nowhere to go I encounter black children I encounter their laughter turning into a prayer
into a clear blueness into a different blueness I see other children hands torn off heads torn off I see hunger
puffing out gaining on weight turning into a lizard swallowing more and more
I am replete with blueness and still my body hair stands on end still my heart races away
still I am mad I am madness born of the inner colour I am madness burgeoning from the palm of the world
I am a deranged seeker of Light I seek the Reflector
I seek the Flare
the blueness of the Silence holds me by the throat
my heart is held by the Player……………………………………………………………………
/Stars came up over Unter den Linden /
WINTER AT THE KAŠTEL STARI
The winter at the Starom Kaštel had a young body.
It lifted its waves high up, mirroring the island storm
in the glimmering high-voltage lashings, hurtling
through the streets in the precipitous desire to overflow the spring’s threshold.
With relish it overturned baskets, scattered litter,
laughing all berserk, tearing up flags
still with the five-pointed star,
and it was salty, salty underneath the heavy skies,
with their swift, gloomy schlepping.
The concrete movie theatre was showing The Ten Commandments with Heston.
It split the Red Sea in half, killing Egyptians.
The other movie hall was showing a porno.
Its span was liberating.
My Dalmatian childhood was thoroughly American.
As American as a chewing gum, as American as Tom and Jerry,
I even kept bumping into Alfred Hitchcock in our backyard.
Dressed in a tuxedo, with a cigar in his mouth, plucking tomatoes.
I remember distinctly those black-and-white cooling fans,
their metal swishing and murderous speed
in those slow-motion takes.
I was taught capitalism by Dynasty. I was a bad pupil, though.
All I recall is that scheming woman
with pink lipstick and artificial hair.
What I dug the most was Popeye’s galactic throw
of the spinach from the can into the muscles
to the yelling of the black Olive.
Already before Velvet was I toying with the Duck.
It was only with Frank Sinatra that I fell head over heels,
the warm glide of his voice, the hardboiled detectives he enacted.
Safety and strength I derived mainly
from the Metro Goldwyn Mayer mane.
The American childhood near Split with a Czech mother
and a half-present Croatian father.
The halcyon days in a dark living-room with spacious
furniture a the shadow of a fig tree
– Coke as a reward to go with the TV.
A SCENT ASSAULT
Day pierced by a scent
the various variations of scent
The snowy membrane of everyday duties
Suddenly, again suddenly, punctures
through the fine essence of taste and notion
The Russian woman’s sweet perfume
Over the white folio of mortal poems
The scent bends down and I, stricken,
descend upon her invisible
The fall is pure bliss.
Suddenly a forest stands before me.
A little ambidextrous, looking out,
Ruffling up its fluff, the forest of scents
and it’s men and women
their snow a softened nape
Ignorant of how far the scent can
reach out, which lards it lightens up,
rather sleepily I beg the tram
to disappear for just a second.
It is beyond the power of time not to be
Therefore I have to survive
the apple cinnamon vanilla
rosy musky onslaught
the terror of sweet tenderness
And, exposed to its apportioning,
I, the erotic bear, now know
This is… perhaps… why we… get born